The Life Of An Unbeliever
by Estriel
Summary: Coming back from the dead isn't as rare as it used to be and Silas knows what he's talking about. But what do you do when you truly have nothing left? Movieverse.
1. Chapter 1

Prelude.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle.

Silas' world was silent. Deadening as fast as his heart pumped precious blood out of his wounds, his limbs did not change colour, for how could a ghost grow pale? He lay on the pavement, listening to himself die. His eyes were not dim, he looked into brightness- a colorful world he was not part of. Yet he didn't see. Couldn't see anything. His mind felled by the thought that everything he believed in, everything he had given his immortal soul for, everything he had loved as best he knew how, had been lies. A dreadful calmness settled in his stomach. It was best that he die now. Easier than struggling with the knowledge it had all been for nothing. He had not been God's angel, far from it- his acts had displeased his Lord. How disappointed must He be in Silas? What a ruined life. He was only fit for death now. Nothing. He had nothing. Nothing of the little he ever had.

If he had been able to do so, if there was breath left in his body, he would have sighed with utter weariness. Finally he was able to go where his Lord's son had gone before him. Let this be his crucifixion- it certainly hurt more than all the pain he had caused himself over the years. If only he could have truly lived the life of an unbeliever for just one day…


	2. Healer

Beeping filled Silas' world.

And breathing. His own, and…someone else's? His Father?...

He could open his eyes. But did he really want to see? What if he was still dying? What if this weightlessness was a prelude to torture? What if this was the beginning of more evil? What if he had been brought back to serve the Devil again?

Silas opened his eyes.

Red hair. Vibrant, beautiful, glowing red hair. _Angel_ whispered Silas' mind. _Devil?_ He asked silently. She was adjusting something at the foot of his bed. He was in hospital. She was a nurse. Of course. How ironic- that just when he had embraced his final escape, the door had been closed in his face.

"Why did you save me?" He demanded, voice rough with anger. She looked up, surprised, and smiled. _Beautiful…_

"Why, hi there. Would you like some water? Sounds like you have a dry throat there, cher. Come on, here y'go." She moved to the table, and picked up a plastic cup, bringing it over to him. He ignored her.

"Why did you bring me back!" He shouted, but it came out hoarsely, more a menacing whisper, and she did not cringe away, but moved closer, holding out the water.

"Oh cher. I'm sorry, but we had to. It wasn't your time. Now, drink up, and rest, okay? The button on your right calls a nurse. There are two guards outside the door, and you're under surveillance, so no funny business. Detective Fache will be along to interview you in a few hours. Can I get you anything?"

Stunned, angry, so incredibly disappointed and tired, Silas slumped back onto his pillow. Taking that as his answer, the nurse bustled towards the door. She opened it slowly, and turned, smiling softly.

"Oh, by the way- my name is Remiele."

Silas turned his head away, and she left, unable to see his eyes slam shut, tortured.

"Remiele."He snarled quietly. Then a few moments later.

"Mercy of God?.."


	3. A Cruce Salus

**Chapter Three: 'A Cruce Salus' **

* * *

****

He had just been lying there, eyes closed, brows furrowed, all day. Not asleep, but almost begging for unconsciousness. She had looked in on him twice every half hour, and nothing had changed, except the measure of pain in his expression, which had been increasing at irregular intervals.

He was so pale; she could not tell if it was his normal albino colouring or if he was still recovering from the blood loss. His hair; silvery, soft and fine- she had brushed it for him while he was under medication, and marvelled at the texture she could feel in its short length. And when he had opened his eyes…Incredible. He was so beautiful. She had cried, for the pain he had suffered.

The wounds on his back could only be explained by one thing; the use of a many-tailed whip, and from the look of the scars, he had been beaten often. Why would a monk be beaten? This kind of abuse was unprecedented in this hospital. How he head endured such pain…Such torture. The police guard had told her he was to be charged with murder, among other things, and she had only wondered who he had killed. She had no doubt he was guilty, but who had shot him, and why, why, why? So many questions.

No doubt he would not answer a single question. But then, on this ward, she was used to that. Often patients were so traumatised, mentally or physically, by what they had endured, that they did not speak for days on end. She could not blame them; what she discovered in their histories often gave her sleepless nights. The police, and hospital staff, always saw the very worst of human nature. From the alcoholics who brought themselves in with their bruised spouses, to the rape victims, to those who had suffered a violent attack- they wore down her belief in basic human goodness; her reason for the life choices she had made. Yet she stayed.

He had to eat, so for once, ignoring his obvious wish for silence, she sat down next to him with his dinner tray, and prepared for an argument.

"Hey there. I know you're awake…Can we speak a minute?"

His eyes flickered open, and the unnatural blankness of his disinterested stare unnerved her. She smiled carefully at him, making her eyes soft and warm in return, asking, but firm.

"You have to eat, honey. I know you don't want to, but if you don't, things will only get worse. Please."

A hint of grim amusement, way back in the depths of his eyes.

"Worse?"

She sensed now was not the time to make a joke, and so smiled sadly at him.

"Yes, cher. Much worse- they'll take away your dignity and make you eat. I'd hate to see that; please. Do it for me- or even better; do it for yourself."

* * *

o

* * *

Himself? 

Do something for himself? An unfamiliar concept- to do something not for the Glory of God, not for the safety of the Church, not for Him. It was a fantastical concept. Surely, everything he believed in…But that was a lie. He had thought himself loved, valued, and needed in some small way. Everything he had done for those beliefs had been a lie. He had been so abused. Why? Why had his world turned upside down? If ever he needed confession and council, it was now. But he didn't want it, no, not ever again. He could not trust anymore. Or at least, not now. Maybe one day. Did this change everything? It is now necessary to go over every action to see it from a different perspective. What conclusions had he come to so far? That he had done great wrong, true, but also that it was possible to do something for himself. Like others did. By doing this small thing, he chose to live. For himself.

"For myself…"

She moved the tray onto his lap-desk, and handed him the fork. Lifting off the covers, and pouring him some water, she saw the hungry look in his eyes, he was sure of it, and moved away quickly.

"Wait…Mercy."


End file.
